


Service Before Self

by mific



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Country and Western Tearjerker, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, Mind Control, Mission Related, Rodney!Whump, Shapeshifting, Team, Twilight References, Wraith (Stargate)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission goes badly wrong, Rodney is lost and his team, in various ways, come to his rescue. But who is the mysterious woman trying to win Rodney over, and will she have her way with him? A team-based adventure with a touch of the supernatural, because the stuff of legends on Earth may not be so strange, in Pegasus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service Before Self

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patriciatepes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciatepes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Howl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6697141) by [patriciatepes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciatepes/pseuds/patriciatepes). 



> Written for the 2016 SGA Reversebang, for Patriciatepes's evocative art.  
> Apart from the Rodney/OFC aspect, this is essentially a Gen story featuring the team.  
> Warning: The Rodney/OFC relationship is non-consensual - however it's non-explicit, more Rodney!whump, rather than romance.
> 
> Huge thanks to ShippenStand for beta-reading and helpful suggestions.

   

 

=o=o=o=

 

Teyla smiled politely at their host Gaarlen, trying to conceal her dislike. There was something about him, something . . . slippery. M8J-375—Thola, according to Gaarlen—was, however, the latest promising find from the Atlantis database and Rodney was certain it was worth exploring. An outpost, perhaps—the database was rarely clear, and had been no more helpful than usual, offering vague hints about a concealed laboratory or underground complex.

Her people had no knowledge of this world, and, while any mission could go awry—and, sadly, too many did—she particularly mistrusted missions to unknown worlds where there was no pre-existing alliance or trade-binding. John and Ronon were also tense and watchful, alert for threats, their weapons near at hand. Rodney, as usual, was oblivious, cross-legged amid the rugs on which their outdoor meal had been laid, poring over his tablet while absently chewing hunks of bread dipped in the coarse grain-laden stew they had been offered. She sighed inwardly. Probably it was her own lack of knowledge of this world and its customs, but she disliked cultures where they were forced to enact ceremonies or attend special feasts before trade talks even commenced. It required more trust than she could muster, to engage so before taking the measure of a people in careful negotiations.

Teyla had eaten only a little of the stew, too lightly spiced for her tastes. She preferred the rogafruit on offer, already sliced open, their plump seeds filled with juice. Teyla wondered if they could trade for the fruit, a well-known delicacy. Ronon had eaten two already.

John tried a piece, eyes widening in pleasure at the taste. He leaned over and moved the dish of fruit away from Rodney's absently reaching hand, shrugging apologetically. "Sorry, buddy. Tastes a bit tart—better not risk it."

It was late summer and the day had been warm. Gaarlen had said an outdoor feast was usual at this season and it was comfortable enough to recline on the thick rugs and cushions. Not that Ronon was reclining, or Rodney, sitting hunched with his tablet in his lap. John, as ever, feigned relaxation, but she could see he was alert to every movement in the village, falling into shadows now as the day drew to a close.

Rodney hummed absently, then his pose stiffened. "Wait, yes. I think . . . hmm, definitely something. Thattaway." He sat up and swiveled the tablet on his lap, pointing at a notch in the nearby mountain range behind which the sun was starting to set.

The timing was far from ideal. They tried to arrange missions to occur in local planetary daylight, but the MALP offered only limited information about remaining day-length and they had arrived mid-afternoon, then been further delayed by these mandatory and frustrating welcoming ceremonies. Teyla knew John would not undertake a search for the outpost in darkness on an unknown world. She hoped he would not accept any offers of overnight hospitality—they could return tomorrow and continue.

She stared at the mountains, estimating travel-time. Close as the massif seemed, looming over the village, it would likely take several hours if their goal was near the notch in the skyline Rodney had indicated. Puddlejumper travel on this world was not possible as the Ancestors' Ring faced a cliff to deter Wraith darts—or any other flying craft, no matter how carefully maneuvered. John had explained to her that even edging slowly into the Ring from Atlantis did not guarantee a gradual exit at their destination. Wormhole travel was not fully predictable and momentum could be gained in transit.

She yawned, covering her mouth in mild embarrassment and wishing for a stimulating stout tea rather than the thin ale they had been offered. Gaarlen was saying something, but Teyla found it difficult to care about how excellent the chola harvest had been, or how the rains were three weeks overdue. She yawned again, finding she had reclined still further, the cushions seeming more inviting than before. That was . . . there was something. She forced her eyes open, only then realising they had slid shut. Ronon was still sitting upright, but his head was bowed, and she heard a faint snore. John was . . . where was he? Oh yes, there, asleep on his back. That was all right, then.

Rodney was blinking rapidly, turning to her, his face dismayed. She smiled fondly—he had such an expressive face. Her eyes slid shut again as he spoke in his usual strident tones.

"Teyla? Teyla? What are you . . . Why is everyone? Oh no. No, no, no, this is bad, this isn't–"

The words had no meaning. It was just dear, silly Rodney—one learned to ignore him. His voice faded and she snuggled into the rugs, sighing comfortably. They would stay overnight after all.

=o=o=o=

"There is no need to shout, Ronon," Teyla muttered, massaging her temples in an effort to reduce the throbbing headache. She felt most unwell, and they were out in full daylight, the wooden cage offering little shade from the morning sun. Her mouth was dust-dry.

Ronon growled again and tried fruitlessly to break the bars. The wood was too thick—small tree-trunks trees lashed together, and she soon learned all their weapons had been confiscated, even Ronon's concealed knives; they had no way to attack the cage in which the Tholans had imprisoned them.

John was pressed to the bars, scanning the apparently abandoned village anxiously. "I can't see Rodney. Can't see anyone. What in hell've they done with him?"

"He . . ." Teyla's voice was a rasp. She swallowed with difficulty and tried again. "I recall very little but he was not drugged, as we were. He was awake, when I lost consciousness." Awake and frightened. They had failed him, the friend and teammate they were sworn to protect. She felt sick with guilt, rage building in her at the Tholans' treachery.

"Didn't eat the fruit." Ronon abandoned the bars and slumped angrily down beside her.

"They drugged the rogafruit?" It was possible—anything was possible with enough cunning and malice.

"Why isn't Lorne here already with a bunch of Marines?" Sheppard banged his brow against the wooden bars, then grunted in pain and gave up, turning to slide down and sit opposite Teyla, rubbing his head. "We missed a check-in."

Teyla touched her ear. "They took our radios. Could they have answered for us?"

"Not SOP. Any anomaly in the check-in sets off alarm bells. Elizabeth'd never accept some stranger leaving a message from us."

"Bad place to send a squad," Ronon muttered. "Ambush."

John's eyes narrowed and he stared toward the Ring. Teyla frowned. It was true—no cloaked puddlejumpers could enter here, and the Ring was an easy choke-point at which to stun arriving forces.

"I think Elizabeth will not have risked it," Teyla said. "Especially if it was made plain to her that we are hostages. She will negotiate."

"Shit!" John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "And the Daedalus can’t help—they're not due for another two weeks. We've got to find Rodney. Christ knows what they've done with him."

"Interrogation?" Ronon stared out at the village.

"Let us hope they merely want his skills," Teyla said, making herself rise and do stretches. Her muscles were stiff and aching, as though she was sickening for the coughing fever. She was no longer nauseated however, which was vastly better.

"Someone's coming," Ronon said, rising quickly and hanging onto the bars, John beside him.

It was Gaarlen, making no pretence at politeness. "Wraithbringers," he intoned dramatically, stopping short of the cage.

Teyla felt Ronon stiffen. "We have not brought the Wraith, Gaarlen," she said coldly. "You, however, have broken guest-faith by drugging and imprisoning us. Where is Dr. McKay?"

Gaarlen sneered. "Darts came last night after you slept, and many were culled. Your companion was among those taken. You must have called the Wraith in some way, and we will find out how."

"Darts can't _come_ through your Gate." John's voice was harsh with rage. Teyla breathed through the cold tightness in her chest. Rodney culled? She did not believe it.

"You must have called a Hive," Gaarlen insisted.

Teyla glared at him. He was insufficiently distressed for a leader whose people had been culled, and seemed almost to be gloating. "What of our people?"

"I am in negotiations," Gaarlen said, "but we will not release Wraithbringers without a great recompense." Ronon's arm flashed out through the bars, but Gaarlen was not so foolish and had placed himself well out of range. Ronon snarled in frustration. 

Teyla fixed Gaarlen with a hard stare. "If you wish for living hostages to bargain with, we must have clean water, and food."

Gaarlen turned on his heel and left, but eventually a youth brought a jug of plain water, and a cloth sack holding cured meat and rough bread. None of it was drugged, but John would not eat, instead peering out through the bars, watching for Rodney. Guards appeared and took up station around the cage, but would not answer their questions.

It took three days for Elizabeth to negotiate their release. At last, they were escorted back to the Ancestors' Ring at dusk by a group of guards, their hands bound. Their demands being met, their captors had abandoned the pretence of a culling and the village was once again occupied as they passed through. Teyla hated to leave without Rodney, but they could do no good here and must return to the city to plan his rescue.

As they were led back through the woods, nearing the Ring, John fell to the ground. Teyla thought it a foolish ploy as the guards were too numerous to fight and were armed with spears and staves. Ronon however threw himself to one side with a great yell, and Teyla lashed out in a round kick, taking down two men before being struck and subdued. She twisted around and saw three guards sitting on Ronon, who was still struggling.

There was a flash of movement to her right, where John had been, and in the dim light Teyla saw a large animal leaping, its fur glinting in the dim light under overhanging branches. It snarled fiercely and slashed the throat of the nearest guard before dashing for the trees, trailing shreds of rope and black cloth. At the edge of the woods the creature turned and stared intently at Teyla, then put back its head and howled. A spear thudded into a nearby tree and the animal vanished into the forest.

Teyla turned to Ronon, bemused. He was on his knees, arms bound before him, frowning into the forest gloom. "Huh. Didn't know Sheppard was a laekos."

Teyla shook her head, disbelieving. "Laekos have not been seen for generations—they are legends, surely."

"That's what they said about the city of the Ancestors," Ronon muttered, and to that, she had no answer.

Their captors hauled them up and force-marched them to the Ring, peering fearfully into the shadows under the trees as they dialled the waystation address that had been agreed.

The wounded man had been carried by two of his fellows and laid in the grass. Teyla did not think he would survive, but could bring herself to feel no pity. The villagers had been careful up to now, but in the fighting their hand-bindings had slipped and she had seen the tattoos each bore in the palm of one hand. The feeding maw. Wraith worshippers.

She caught Ronon's eye and tilted her head at one. He nodded grimly and she leaned in, speaking in an urgent undertone. "We cannot leave Rodney to them, we must–"

He shook his head. "Can't do any more here, like this. Need weapons, reinforcements." He jerked his head at the shimmering Ring-disc. "C'mon. Sheppard'll find him."

The guards pushed them, Teyla flinching away from the touch of cursed hands, and the Ring swallowed them whole.

=o=o=o=

Some days were worse than others. The headache made it hard to think, and he was often sick, unable to keep food down. He'd hurt his head in the crash of course, he knew that. When he forgot she reminded him and said he had to be patient, had to let himself heal. He didn't know what he'd have done without her.

She was a queen—she didn't seem to have a name, or she wouldn't tell him. He wondered if it might be Samantha, which was a good name, although he had a vague memory of short hair and hers was long. Blonde, though, which was . . . good? He thought he liked blonde hair.

It was all very hazy, but there'd been a crash and he'd been injured—he was sure about that. His queen looked after him and said she loved him. She told him he was hers and he believed her. It felt right, like something he knew deep down. She was his and they were together. He couldn't think of a time when she hadn't been there. He didn't like thinking about that. It made him anxious, made his stomach hurt.

There wasn't a before, but she said it would come back once he'd healed up from the crash. It happened when you hurt your head—things got confused for a while. She tried to help him remember, so he could get better. Where he was from. How to get back there. That was important, but his head hurt so much and when he strained to remember that he felt worse. Sometimes he threw up.

The queen told him strange things. About giant rings that led to other worlds, about spaceships. She showed him symbols like the horoscope signs girls used to wear around their necks on gold chains, only different. Where had that been, with the girls? He couldn't remember, could only think of a name. April. She'd been blonde, too. He liked blondes, he was fairly sure. April had made him sick, he remembered. Sometimes he thought the queen made him sick, but that was wrong, that was just a stupid notion because he'd hurt his head. Like that time he thought she had too many teeth and extra nostrils. That could happen when you'd hit your head. Hallucinations, like the wispy nothings he sometimes saw in dark corners.

She was . . . they were together, that was all. She looked after him and stroked his head when it ached. Sometimes she made him kneel at her feet and call her his queen. She really got into that and after a while his knees hurt, but he couldn't seem to get up until she let him.

He didn't like the rules, but she said they were necessary as he wasn't well and had to rest. Kissing wasn't allowed, and he wasn't sure, but he thought he'd liked kissing, before. He thought he remembered kissing April, and Sam with the short blonde hair. He vaguely remembered a pink top, and cold wetness. His queen wore long, silky dresses that let him see her tattoos, but she didn't let him touch her. The tattoos made him feel queasy, anyway, and sometimes his vision shifted and he wasn't sure if the body under them was human. But of course it was, of course, that was just because he'd hurt his head.

She said it would be different when he was well, but she kept making him kneel and pushing questions at him, and he couldn't give her the right answers because of the headache and how tired he was. Sometimes she got angry and knocked him over—she was strong, for a woman, like someone else he'd known . . . someone with sticks? She said she was sorry, after, but he still couldn't tell her what she wanted.

He tried to do math in his head to pass the time, but the numbers were jumbled, which scared him. Being underground scared him as well, even though she soothed him and said it was safe. He's never liked small rooms and dark tunnels with no daylight. The walls glowed bluish-green in places, but they smelled bad and felt sticky and he tried not to get too close to them. Sometimes he panicked about being closed in, and she had to touch him and take the fear away.

Mostly he slept, and that was good, because he'd hurt his head. Once he'd healed up he'd remember where home was and how to get back there. He'd take her with him, because she was his queen.

He hoped they could go soon.

=o=o=o=

John hated leaving Teyla and Ronon but there was no other way. It hadn't been a conscious choice, the change, but when he'd seen the tattooed feeding mouth on the guard's hand he knew what they were dealing with. Wraith worshippers. The bastards had Rodney.

Teyla hadn't sensed Wraith themselves, but they might be hibernating or in a deep, shielded stronghold. John only knew that he saw that tattoo and the change swept over him in a surge of rage, ripping him from human form into the wolf, which hadn’t happened for years, not since Afghanistan.

He'd been so careful, even in the storm with the Genii invasion he'd held back, the wolf ravening inside him when Kolya threatened Elizabeth and Rodney. The city's presence in his head helped him keep it locked down—it was easier somehow, around the Ancient tech. Bad enough with everyone eyeing him nervously after, whispering that he'd killed fifty-five Genii in as many seconds with the Gate shield. What would they have said if he'd left the enemies he'd killed around the city with their throats torn out? Monster. Animal.

John and his wolf weren't exactly on speaking terms. He hadn't changed for years, pushing it down hard, keeping it in. It was nothing to do with the full moon or being bitten, none of that werewolf crap. He guessed he was a mutant, inhuman, like with the ATA gene.

The first time it happened he was twelve, after his mother died. He was a stew of angry teenage hormones, enraged with his father who'd shut himself away and pretended not to care. John had yelled at him then charged off into the woods on the estate and suddenly, between one tree and the next he was on all fours, scrambling out of his clothes, then running free. He'd killed a rabbit that bolted into his path, snapping its neck cleanly then hiding in a hollow tree to eat it and sleep, waking human once more, naked and cold and terrified. He'd wiped the blood off his face and hands and crept back to the stables, finding some old clothes there and letting his dad's trainer come on him curled up in the straw. They'd sent him to a psychiatrist and muttered about "shock" and "transient breakdown", and he'd lied and smiled and brazened it out.

No one had seen him change before. No one who'd lived. He'd changed whenever he could, as a teenager. On the estate, trying to get control of it, using it to burn off his feelings. It took anger to shift, but he'd had plenty to be angry about—no problem triggering the change. In term-time at his expensive schools it was harder, but he built up a rep for going on long walks and hikes—there were always woods nearby. He stashed bags of clothes in secret places and became adept at breaking in and out at night. It didn't do his rep any harm, hinting about dates with girls.

Everything fell apart one summer break when his dad caught him kissing Adam, a gardener, in back of the shed that housed the ride-on mower. Sure, John was technically underage but only by six months, and Adam was eighteen so calling him a pedophile was horseshit. Adam was sacked on the spot and John came so close to changing and going for his father's throat, only just managing to wrench himself away and sprint for the trees at the last moment.

He ran until his chest burned, until the forest folded around him and he rolled, snapping at the constricting clothes until he extricated himself, loping off into the dimness to find something to kill. He threw up, after, back in his room. It had been so close, and too often he hated his father, but he'd never . . . the thought of what he might have done gave him gooseflesh, made him hide in his bed, sick with fear.

He pushed the wolf down after that, too scared to change. Went into the military as soon as he could, figuring if he had _that_ in him he'd better channel it. The Air Force seemed safer—in the army there might be too much opportunity to change and be caught, and he didn't fancy losing it on a ship with no concealment. The freedom of flying was like the chase, almost like wolf-running, and they didn't call them dogfights for nothing. John figured if he lost it while piloting a fighter, the worst he'd do would be take himself out. He could live with that.

Flying helped a lot, though, and he'd become expert at holding it all in, keeping his feelings locked down. Not showing much, not talking much, a loner, intensely loyal to his friends. He guessed that was the wolf in him, and when Mitch and Dex and Holland went down behind enemy lines, the wolf drove him to find them. After Holland bled out, John went feral, hunting the enemy in their desert camp, killing in a frenzy. They'd seen him, before they died. Seen the devil wolf—because mass was mass and he wasn't a small guy. He'd crawled out of the desert days later half dead with thirst, battered but at least semi-human, to tell bullshit stories of capture and escape. Then came the disciplinary hearings—the censure, the black mark, Antarctica.

So now a bunch of Wraith worshippers had seen him change, and Ronon and Teyla. He figured the worshippers didn't matter—maybe he'd kill them, and no one'd believe them, anyway. Ronon was another matter, and Teyla.

John ran through the woods in his wolf, not thinking for hours on end. He couldn't run forever though, even on Rodney's faint scent trail, and it worried at him when he stopped to lay his muzzle on his paws, or drink from streams, or crunch the bones of small creatures. Had Teyla understood when he'd howled? Had she known him? What did they think, Teyla and Ronon? That he was a monster? An animal?

Too many unknowns, and nothing to be done, but first, Rodney. The trail was tenuous and although he caught strands of Rodney's scent, it was mixed with something alien—musky and foul. The trail led toward the notch in the mountains where Rodney had picked up . . . something, maybe a signal. As good a place to try as any, so he followed the scent, or when he lost it, used high ground and the horizon.

For the first time in his life, John stayed a wolf, day after day. Maybe he was rusty, unused to changing. Maybe he was stuck. He didn't know if he'd be human again, but it wasn't an option until he found Rodney, so he loped through the woods, sleeping under fallen trees and in caves, hunting and scenting. Fully the wolf, in search of his pack. He had Rodney to track, and for now, that was enough.

John ran.

=o=o=o=

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said, folding her hands on the conference table. "What's a laycos?"

"A laekos." Teyla spelled it out.

"Oh," Elizabeth said. "You know, that's very like the Greek for wolf."

"Yeah," Ronon said. "Like in _New Moon_."

Elizabeth tilted her head, brows raised in a question.

Teyla put a hand on Ronon's arm and smiled rather tightly. She had counselled against telling Elizabeth and the others that they had seen Colonel Sheppard change—she could still hardly credit it herself. But Ronon had said he wasn't lying to Elizabeth again, not after the Kell thing. "Ronon is fond of the _Twilight_ movies."

"Just the ones with lots of laekos," Ronon added. "Good fighters."

"Twilight?" Elizabeth looked across the table at Major Lorne, who made a face. She frowned at Ronon. "You mean the . . . those films about teenagers and _vampires_?"

Ronon shook his head. "Don't like the vampires—too like Wraith. Just the wolves."

"Werewolves," Lorne said sceptically. "You're saying Sheppard's a _werewolf_?"

"No, indeed," Teyla said quickly, resenting the time they were forced to waste on this foolish discussion, when anything could have become of John and Rodney. "Laekos, and the wolves in the _Twilight_ series are not like . . ." She cast about for a suitable example. "Not like Remus Lupin in Harry Potter. They are shape-changers."

"Don't just change with the moon," Ronon clarified. "Can do it any time. Never seen Sheppard do it before, though." There was a thoughtful pause, then he added, "Can't pass it on by biting, either."

Dr. Zelenka, who had been focusing on his laptop, gave a snort of suppressed laughter. "Shapeshifters," he suggested.

"Well, I'm glad we've cleared _that_ up," Elizabeth said, an edge in her voice. She leaned forward. "Teyla, you said it was dark under the trees, and there'd been fighting and confusion. Perhaps you didn't–"

Teyla stiffened. "I understand your disbelief, Elizabeth, but my vision is excellent, and Ronon's is superb."

"That's true," Lorne said. "He never misses anything."

"Then I'm afraid there's only one possible explanation," Elizabeth said, shaking her head. "You'd both been compromised and were still affected by the drug they put in your food. You must have hallucinated it, in the dim light. It's the most likely option."

Teyla drew herself up. "The effects of the drug were soporific, and had worn off by the morning. We are not compromised, but of course we will allow Dr. Beckett to examine us. Ronon and I know what we saw, and I am sorry if it challenges your world-view, Elizabeth, but laekos are known in Pegasus. They are rare to the point of being legendary in most cultures, but they are real."

"Know a few epic poems about them," Ronon said. "Probably no Satedan ones left now." He looked down for a moment, then raised his head, fixing Lorne with a fierce stare. "Wouldn't have left them both behind if Sheppard wasn't . . ."

"A wolf?" Lorne asked doubtfully.

Ronon nodded. "Yeah. After he changed, knew he'd be fine. Knew he'd track McKay. It's mostly forests there."

"Why do you think they took Dr. McKay?" Lorne asked.

Ronon shrugged. "Wraith worshippers—who knows. Get him to fix something? Or there might be Wraith there. McKay's not much good at withstanding interrogation." He glared at Lorne as though Lorne had criticised Rodney. "Shouldn't have to be. Not his job." Lorne raised his hands placatingly and Ronon lapsed into morose silence. Teyla thought it very probable that, like her, he blamed himself for failing to keep Rodney safe.

She patted his arm. "Indeed it is not. So the sooner we can mount a retrieval mission for Rodney and John, the better."

Dr. Zelenka looked up from his laptop. "We are analyzing scans from the planet, across the time of the mission. No indicators that the Stargate on M8J-375 dialed recently at all, other than when you arrived, and when you were both sent to the waystation Gate."

Elizabeth looked a little less troubled. "So no Wraith have come through that Gate on M8J-375? That's something, at least."

Teyla glanced at Elizabeth. " I did not sense any Wraith, but if they were hibernating . . ."

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, of course. First, you both need to be medically cleared. Then we'll see."

Lorne looked worried. "Bad situation, tactically, with that Gate."

"It's a problem," Elizabeth said. "Unfortunate that we can't use a cloaked puddlejumper. What do you recommend?"

Lorne frowned. "Too easy to ambush us—they could pick off a whole platoon if they stake it out with enough men. Guess we could send a MALP first, see what happened."

Dr. Zelenka nodded. "We will ready one."

Elizabeth rose. "I'll take Teyla and Ronon down to Medical. Major, Dr. Zelenka, work on a retrieval plan and get it to me once we're finished there."

"Yes, ma'am."

Zelenka nodded and closed his laptop.

Ronon spoke up. "This be a problem for Sheppard's command?"

Lorne raised an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"Him being a laekos."

"I . . ." Lorne looked taken aback. His expression became wry. "Well, there's nothing _specific_ about it in the Uniform Code of Military Justice."

Dr. Zelenka's mouth twitched and Elizabeth appeared to be struggling for composure. "I think we'll leave that . . . issue . . . aside for now. Focus on the rescue."

Teyla nodded firmly. They had wasted too much time already, and now Carson would prod at them, shine lights into their eyes, ask them to urinate into cups, and make them lie under the ancient scanner. She sighed as she accompanied Elizabeth and Ronon down the hallway. Really, John turning out to be a laekos, even if useful in tracking Rodney, was proving most inconvenient.

=o=o=o=

"We can't stay here."

Teyla looked up from the mat where she had been stretching after practising triple-strikes against the heavy bag. "Ronon, greetings. It is frustrating, I agree."

Four days had passed since their return to Atlantis via the waystation planet. Elizabeth was reluctant to authorize a mission as every time a MALP had been pushed through the Ancestors' Ring to Thola it had been hit by stunner fire the moment it emerged. There had been three trials and time of day made no difference—clearly, guards had been posted on the Ring at all hours. Unfortunately, the nature of the Ring meant that once it opened, the whole area was bathed in light so even at dead of night, nothing could pass through unseen. Elizabeth had decided to wait for the Daedalus, which was due in eight or nine days.

"They're thinking too big." He crouched next to her, one knee on the mat. "Can't send a platoon through, they'd get picked off. Small strike squad, though." He looked at her. "You and me."

Teyla shook her head. "We would be stunned immediately, and captured. We could not break free last time, so how–"

"Been talking to Radek." He folded down to sit cross-legged beside her. "He's worried, too."

"We are all worried, Ronon. Elizabeth as well, but she and Major Lorne cannot knowingly send men into a trap." Teyla sighed. "It is in some ways unfortunate that the Daedalus is not far away, so is seen as a solution."

"Waited too long already—anything could be happening. We can't wait another nine days."

"I agree, but we cannot just walk thr–"

"Like I said, Radek's got an idea. Lorne's in on it, too. Flashbangs."

Teyla squinted at him. "Flashbangs?"

"Send a bunch of those flashbang grenade-things through just ahead of us. Radek says he can rig it so stunner fire triggers them, makes them all go off at once."

"So all the guards around the Ring would be blinded and deafened simultaneously." Teyla considered this. "How would we know that they were all close enough to be affected? If some were not, they would still stun us when we emerged."

"Smoke bombs as well," Ronon said, grinning. "Ring clearing's not that big, and there's the cliff. Guards'll be behind the first trees, not further back."

"Yes," Teyla said, visualizing it. "It could work. Not with a large force, but if we come through at ground level, into the smoke haze when almost all the guards are blind and deaf, and if it is at night and we have allies to close the Ring after us, we would be exposed only for the briefest time, with a good chance of reaching cover."

"Thought you'd go for it," Ronon said with a nod. "Lorne doesn't think he can sell it to Weir, not with Marines. They're not so good at hiding in forests."

"Whereas you and I, my friend . . ." Teyla smiled at Ronon in the way she knew made even seasoned Marines falter and step back. 

"Yeah," Ronon said with relish, his grin equally feral.

They rose, and Teyla collected her gear. "Come, then," she said. "We have preparations to make, before we go to New Athos. I am sure Elizabeth will understand that in times of trouble I need the comfort of my people."

Ronon smirked. "Nice one."

=o=o=o=

It did not, of course, go according to plan.

The Ring was placed on a stone slab only eight bantos-lengths from the cliff-face—close enough that the Ring-plume had hollowed out a concavity in the cliff. The problem, as Dr. Zelenka had explained, was that nothing could travel back through the Ring-disc when it was open; Ring travel was one-way, as they all knew. Many of the encircling enemy would thus be protected from the blinding flashbang light by the open Ring itself, although the deafening noise should still be effective and guards at the edges of the platform close by the cliff would be disabled. It seemed unlikely that these villagers knew of flashbangs so they would be entirely unprepared for the terrifying effect. The smoke canisters were however crucial, to confuse any guards who remained unblinded.

They aimed to get the flashbang-bomb, as Major Lorne called the cluster of flashbang grenades, well away from the Ring before it detonated, to reduce the Ring's shielding effect. To this end, Ronon carried a small wheeled trolley in his pack to New Athos. They were to tie the flashbang-bomb to it, push it firmly through the Ring, and it should roll almost to the rock-face before being set off by stunner blasts.

In the event, the guards proved unable to hit the small, moving target, lost in smoke as it was. Dr. Zelenka had installed a fail-safe detonator to kick in after a ten-count, but the trolley hit a rock and overturned, disrupting the mechanism.

When Ronon and Teyla rolled through into swirls of smoke, the flashbang-bomb lay on its side, wheels still spinning. The Ring winked out behind them and Ronon cursed, shielded Teyla with his body, muttered _look away and_ _cover your ears_ and shot the package, which exploded only 4 bantos-lengths from them. Being prepared, they were not blinded, but even with hands clapped to ears the sound was overwhelming and they were temporarily deafened—Ronon had of course only been able to cover one ear, although his marksmanship, even with his eyes tight shut, was vastly superior to the incompetent Tholans.

Despite the handicap of deafness, they successfully won the shelter of the trees without being fired on and, after stunning a couple of dazed, stumbling guards, were rapidly safe in the dark forest. It was, however, two hours before Teyla could hear a thing, which was annoying, and made escaping pursuit more hazardous. Ronon was deaf all that night, and Teyla sometimes saw him shake his dreadlocked head as though he had an earful of water. No matter; they managed well enough with hand-signs.

Both of them had excellent spatial awareness, so they knew roughly where, in relation to the Ring and its cliff, the notch in the Mountains lay. They set out in that general direction in the enveloping darkness, putting a good distance between themselves and the villagers. Once daylight broke they would find high ground or climb a tree, and get their bearings more accurately.

There was no evidence of pursuit, but their temporarily damaged hearing set both of them on edge. In darkness, hearing was all, scent giving only limited warning of danger. When they judged they were well beyond capture, they found a space beneath a fallen tree in which to hide, sleep, and restore their battered senses.

Teyla took first watch. As she sat and meditated, hoping that an alert, calm state would overcome the mild tinnitus still troubling her, she thought back to their departure.

Elizabeth had eyed her like a parent humoring a devious child when Teyla announced her need to visit New Athos. This all-knowing attitude was an annoying habit of Elizabeth's, largely caused by her power stemming from the nonsensical and unwieldy IOA bureaucracy, rather than a small, wise group of elders.

Teyla had gazed back calmly. "It is a difficult situation, Elizabeth, and we must use all our resources. My people are a great source of strength and support to me."

"Yes, I'm sure they will be," Elizabeth had said, barely suppressing a wry smile. "Do you need any . . . supplies, for the settlement?"

Teyla had bowed her head politely. "Dr. Zelenka and Major Lorne have provided all we will need. Ronon will help carry them."

"Have they indeed . . . well, good." Elizabeth had pursed her lips.

"We hope not to be away very long."

"I do hope not." Elizabeth had become earnest. "Please, check in through the Gate if you can, in case there is news from M8J-375."

Bowing her forehead to touch Elizabeth's, Teyla had replied. "I promise," putting layers of meaning into her words, and knowing Elizabeth heard them. They were, after all, both skilled diplomats.

Here, in the gently ringing night through which the usual nocturnal noises of a forest were filtering, Teyla shifted her pose, took several cleansing breaths, and reviewed what lay ahead.

They faced several days of travel to the place Rodney had indicated, there to locate Rodney, who was doubtless detained somewhere relatively inacessible, and John, either in wolf or human form. She had brought clothing and boots for John in case he required them, but in some ways she hoped he remained a wolf—they might yet need his special senses to find Rodney's prison. She and Ronon could travel swiftly, and had Athosian trail-rations to avoid wasting time in hunting. They would find Rodney and John, of this she was sure.

She sat, centered, quietly on guard while Ronon slept, willing their team-mates to be well, for no other outcome was acceptable. 

=o=o=o=

It was so much better outside that Rodney almost fell to his knees and kissed the ground. But they were aching from kneeling for his queen, and there might be bugs, or spores, or something nasty. You couldn't be too careful.

She'd only let him come out here because his panics had gotten worse, and more frequent. He'd told her and told her that he wasn't good with dark places and looming walls, but at the end, before she let him out, he'd curled up in the alcove that passed for a bed, and just moaned, rocking to and fro, unable to speak. It was all very hazy, and he was still sick of course, with his head. There were others in the darkness with her, talking in strange voices that hurt his ears, and he couldn't understand them properly, just a few words. _Stubborn_ . . . _too drugged to be of use_ . . . _break him_. He tried not to hear what they said; it was frightening.

The headache was much better up here on the surface. Not gone, and his thoughts still weren't clear, but the fresh air and daylight, cool and dappled under the trees, was like a tonic.

Rodney stumbled into a glade, a little way from the concealed entrance in the mountainside that led to the queen's . . . he'd thought nest, but that wasn't right, she wasn't an insect, like a termite or a wasp. She was his queen, and she'd graciously allowed him some time on the surface because he was weak and foolish and overwhelmed by her presence. He knew there would be more questions when he returned, and shuddered, feeling a depth of revulsion he hadn't been aware of down in the . . . no, not a nest, just an underground . . . facility. That was common enough here, because of the . . . but he couldn't remember why people often lived underground, so he dismissed the nagging worry and found a fallen log to sit on.

There were small white flowers in the grass, five-petaled. He'd known someone once who liked flowers. A redhead, not blonde, even though he liked blondes, he thought. He reached down and picked a flower, frowning at it, but her name wouldn't come.

He glanced up at the small spherical flying machine hovering several meters away by a tree, a ring of lights blinking. An eye-tracker—her way of keeping him safe, she'd explained, and he was grateful, because forests could be dangerous, with fierce creatures like . . . none came to mind, just a bear in a hat, warning about fires. It didn't seem very fierce, but fire could be frightening, although probably not here as the woods were damp with moss. He peered around anxiously, swiveling to look behind in case any bears were creeping up, but there were none.

Rodney didn't think he liked animals much, in general, except one called Cat, or was that the species? Cat hadn't been fierce, well, not _very_ fierce, although he did have sharp claws. He had very soft fur, though, and he'd sat on Rodney's lap and purred, which was nice. Rodney thought stroking Cat might help his headache, but Cat wouldn't like the facility, with its sticky walls and weird smell. Rodney didn't like it himself, but he was stuck there until he remembered where home was.

Something big pressed against his side from behind and a wet thing nudged his hand. There was a whining noise in his right ear and he turned to see a huge, shaggy animal butting at him, almost playfully. Rodney gave a small shriek and fell off the log, sprawling in the dirt. The animal . . . wait, he'd seen something like it before . . . made a huffing sound and stood over him, nuzzling his cheek with a cold, wet nose. It put a paw on his chest, and licked him.

Rodney shuddered and wriggled under the huge restraining paw, straining away from the thing's tongue. "Ew, you monster, get off!"

He peered around for the stupid eye-tracker that was supposed to be protecting him from giant hairy beasts, but it seemed to have vanished. "Let me up!" he told the creature, and it moved back and sat, watching him intently, its mouth open in a grin.

Rodney clambered back up onto his log again, glaring at the animal. It had dark fur, silvered at the tips, and its eyes were a pale green-brown, which seemed unusual for a . . . dog? Yes, a dog, he was sure . . . even though it was larger . . . but definitely a dog. Dogs were . . . safe? People kept dogs, he remembered. Not him; he'd had Cat, but dogs were generally okay, unless they had rabies.

"You don't have rabies, do you?" The dog gave him a sardonic look, so that was probably a no. Anyway, he was pretty sure it'd look sick and be foaming at the mouth, and even though it was worryingly large, it seemed healthy enough and quite calm, even friendly.

"Good doggie?" he tried, tentatively. That earned him an eye-roll, which he hadn't realized dogs could do, but the animal didn't seem offended, just pleased to see him. It lay down and crawled closer until it reached him, its wagging tail sweeping dead leaves and twigs aside as it came. It really was unusually large, its huge, shaggy head at the same level as the log. It whined questioningly and rested its heavy head in his lap. Fur was fur, so he stroked it. The dog closed its eyes. It seemed to like being petted. Rodney liked it, too.

Snatches of a song came to him, about a dog. Maybe the dog would like it, if he sang. He tried to remember the words, but other than a feeling that it was a sad song, he could only dredge up a few lines. He hummed the tune vaguely, then a little more confidently, and started singing.

" _When I was a lad, And old Shep was a pup, Over hills and meadows we'd stray. Just a boy and his dog . . ."_  He trailed off—that was all he could remember. The dog was looking up at him, a peculiar expression on its face. It whined briefly, and nudged him.

"Sorry, but I can't . . . my memory's not so good, you see." Stupid to talk to a dog, but it was friendly, and warm (and why was she never warm, his queen? Why did she feel so cold and clammy?) Anyway, the dog seemed interested and it had liked him singing. Perhaps it was musical? But dogs weren't musical, were they? "I got hit on the head in a crash," he told it confidingly. "I'm not right yet." He looked around. Still no eye-tracker to protect him, but he was okay; he had the dog.

"Anyway, I think it’s a sad song, and we don't want that, do we?"

The dog made a yipping noise, which Rodney took for agreement. "No, well, life's hard enough what with being sick and the headaches, and not remembering and stuck underground all the time. We don't need sad songs on top of all that."

The dog yipped again. It was a nice animal, Rodney decided, and remarkably not-stupid. He couldn't go on calling it 'the dog', although he'd called his cat Cat, because . . . well, he wasn't sure why he'd done that.

"Oh, I know," he said, pleased. "I'll call you Shep, because that's a dog's name, right?"

The dog sat up and panted at him, grinning, It raised a paw, as though shaking hands. Rodney smiled tentatively and took the offered paw. "Pleased to meet you, Shep. I'm Rodney. He wasn't sure whether to shake the paw, but he moved it up and down a little, feeling foolish.

The dog tensed and laid its ears back, snarling. Rodney dropped its paw and shrank back nervously—it really was very large—but it seemed to have been startled by something else, in the trees. He looked back but the dog had vanished, although he could see where its tail had swept the forest floor clean, so he hadn't hallucinated it. He was pretty sure he hadn't.

She emerged from the trees, tall and stately, her pale skin almost glowing in the greenish light filtering through the leaves. She was smiling, lips pressed together and he had a sinking feeling he'd done something wrong. But he hadn't, he'd just been getting some air. He probably shouldn't mention the dog, though, or she might not let him come up here again, and he wanted to come back.

She called him to her in her way, and he went, and knelt, and looked up, blinking away the momentary wrongness of her face (teeth and extra nostrils). It passed in a second and she was beautiful again. He was just tired from over-exerting himself, she told him, and of course he was, he knew she was right; she was always right. He'd been outside too long, been too long away from her.

Glad that she had come to find him before he got sick, Rodney followed his queen back into the mountain.

=o=o=o=

John lay in the bushes, watching the entrance. He'd seen Rodney twice more, once a day, when the Wraith queen let him out for air. He didn't think the Wraith knew about him—he'd snapped up the eye-trackers in his jaws before they got a clear image. They were easy enough to disable once he'd snuck up and caught them. Buried, and topped with rocks he'd nudged over, they weren't going anywhere. The Wraith sent another device out with Rodney each day and hadn't tried to find the ones he'd downed. Probably used to a lot of attrition, with the trackers.

John scratched his ear, restless with inactivity. He couldn't afford to sleep—if Rodney was coming it'd be during daylight, not in the night when John ran, and hunted, and slept. He wondered why the Wraith were so oblivious to animals other than their human "cattle", trusting their stunners to keep them safe. He had no idea why they didn't suck life-force out of other species, but the whole life-force draining thing was crazy weird, anyway. Even with humans it didn't always work—they'd made Ronon a runner because they couldn't feed on him.

John didn't question it too much—he was no stranger to weirdness, himself. He shook himself and huffed out a sigh, the nagging worry returning. What if he was stuck?

After he got here, Rodney's trail ending at a cliff-face John knew must hide an entrance, he hadn't known what to do. The underground stronghold wasn't ancient; it stank of Wraith. The whole narrow, tree-filled valley leading to the cliff-face stank of Wraith. Well, and people— _worshippers_. The thought made him raise his hackles and snarl.

Over to one side behind a grove of trees, several big animals were penned. Not quite horses, more like tall, thin moose with thick, saggy hides and no antlers, a couple of horny tusks on their trunk-like snouts. They'd smelled pungent and musky, and he realised it was their trail, mixed with Rodney's, he had followed through the forest. They were rigged with leather harnesses and saddles, and were clearly used as riding beasts. He'd sniffed around their pen, but they'd gotten restless and made low, trumpeting cries, so he'd slunk off before anyone came out to check on them.

Then he'd waited. And waited. And waited. A whole night and a day, before anything happened. Seeing Rodney emerge, even with the device trailing him, had been a huge relief; John had almost bounded over and jumped up on him the second he appeared, like some goddamn faithful hound. But no. First he'd caught the tracker, then made nice, carefully, so Rodney wouldn't freak out and run away.

Rodney wasn't right. He was vague and stumbling, his sharp mind dulled and muddled. Probably drugged, or mind-whammied by the Wraith, or both. He was alive, though, and didn't seem to have been fed on, for which John was grateful.

Problem was, John got very little time with him, each day. Once he'd dealt with the eye-tracker, it wasn't long before the queen came to check on Rodney and lead him back inside. As soon as she took Rodney off that first day, John started trying to change. He had to get Rodney away and to do that, he needed to be human. To talk. Rodney wasn't going to follow a wolf into the forest, even if he did, kind of, recognize John. Why else would he have sung a Cash song? Called him Shep? Somehow, Rodney knew him, and he'd come to trust John in wolf-form and to chat away—even singing more of _Old Shep_ when he recalled it, although John could have done without, " _if dogs have a heaven, there's one thing I know, Old Shep has a wonderful home,_ " being warbled at him by a sniffling Rodney.

He'd tried to change, and nothing had happened. After several abortive attempts, he'd willed the change as hard as he could and curled up to sleep, only to wake in the gray of dawn, still a wolf. It had never happened before, but then, he'd never before lived as a wolf for so long. Or lived for years as a human without changing. Maybe he'd fucked himself, and would stay a wolf forever. Would he lose himself, little by little? Lose the human memories? It'd almost be kinder, if he did.

For now, he set it aside and focused on Rodney and the mission. But as a wolf, there was little he could do, except be Rodney's friend—be Shep. He couldn't take Rodney away—he was big, for a wolf, but not big enough that Rodney could ride him. Rodney was drugged and disoriented and couldn't walk very fast, even if John managed to tug him off into the forest. They'd be caught within an hour, and then what? Would the bitch-queen hurt him? She sure as hell wouldn't let him out again.

Not enough intel. Why were they holding him? What did they want? Information, probably, about Earth and Atlantis, maybe about technology. John could only hope the queen had miscalculated. Rodney was far tougher than he seemed, and it looked like keeping him docile meant drugging him so heavily he could barely think, let alone remember.

John waited, head on his paws, eyes fixed on the deceptive, hidden entrance. How long would the queen keep Rodney if her plan failed? What would happen when she lost patience?

The answers to those questions made him flatten his ears and whine. He had to do _something,_ and soon. But what?

=o=o=o=

" _Wraith!"_ Teyla stopped short, her eyes unfocused, one hand clutching Ronon's arm.

He tensed. "Where? How many?"

"Ahead, not very far," Teyla whispered, concentrating on listening without giving herself away. "A queen. There are several others, but their minds are further off, or shielded."

"Take point," Ronon said, fading back to follow her.

They crept through the forest for a few minutes, until they heard voices, one of them the queen's unpleasant tones. Edging up, Teyla peered around a tree, into a clearing.

" _Who were you calling_?" The queen had long pale hair, and her face was more handsome than most, but for the inhuman spiracles in her cheeks and the rows of teeth flashing when she spoke.

Before her on the ground, Rodney knelt, staring up, his mouth open. Teyla's heart lifted—he did not seem harmed, or prematurely aged. He looked strange, his posture slack and his expression clouded. He blinked up at the queen, seeming drawn to her, unable to look away. "Calling?" he said, his speech a little slurred. "Jus' my dog. Ol' Shep."

The queen's voice resonated discordantly. " _There are no dogs here_ ," she said harshly, holding out her left hand. " _You have defied me_."

Teyla saw that she held something metallic. Ronon leaned in close and breathed "Wraith eye-tracker" in her ear. Teyla frowned, trying to make sense of the scene. The device was dirty, and there was a muddy hole in the ground behind the queen from which it seemed to have been taken. Had Rodney been trying to hide Wraith technology? Why an eye-tracker?

"Oh," Rodney said vaguely. "One of those. They come an' go."

The queen bared her teeth. " _Why did you disable it_?"

Rodney frowned in puzzlement, but didn't seem frightened by the rows of teeth on display—perhaps the queen was influencing his mind? "I didn'–"

Snarling, the queen flung the eye-tracker at a tree. It struck, shattering into metallic shards. Rodney blinked at the tree. "Oops," he said.

" _You are useless to me_ ," the queen rasped, her voice throbbing with harmonics. The pressure of her mind made Teyla wince in pain. " _Weak, and useless, and good for one thing only_." She hauled Rodney to his feet in one movement and held him there, swaying, bringing up her right hand, the feeding maw gaping hungrily.

Teyla and Ronon leaped out from either side of the tree, guns raised, but a gray-black blur shot across the clearing before they could act, knocking Rodney aside, and took down the queen. She roared, then her rage was cut off as the wolf got its jaws on her throat, replaced by choking sounds and wet snarls.

Teyla ran to Rodney, who was sprawled, dazed, in the leaves. "Shep," he said plaintively, lifting a mud-smeared hand. "No, don't–"

Teyla crouched by him and pressed him back, which took no strength at all. She trained her gun on the struggling queen, but the animal—John, of course, still a wolf—blocked any shot, rolling and snarling, his teeth locked in the queen's throat, ichor spraying his fur. Ronon circled, his blaster on them, but could not fire, not without striking John.

"Don't stun him!" Teyla called, urgent. There were more Wraith nearby, and they had no way to rescue both an unconscious laekos and Rodney, who looked incapable of walking fast, let alone running. Ronon hissed in frustration, but did not shoot.

The queen was visibly failing, but in a desperate move she forced her feeding hand between herself and her attacker, pressing the maw to the wolf's ribcage. Ronon cursed, crouching to try for a head-shot, but there was too much movement.

"Wait!" Teyla called. "She cannot feed, see?" It was true. The wolf was entirely unaffected, merely tightening its death-grip on the queen's throat, shaking her violently. She went limp, like a rag doll, and the wolf stepped back, still snarling and watchful. Teyla saw that the queen's head was almost severed from her torso.

Ronon knelt and drew his largest knife, separating the head cleanly then standing and smashing his boot down in a crushing blow. The queen's foul presence had been dim in Teyla's mind. Now it winked out, leaving a blessed near-silence. "She is gone," Teyla said.

"Teyla?" Rodney said faintly, at her feet. "What—oh my _god_. Is that a _Wraith_ _queen_?" He scrambled clumsily back from the corpse, eyes wide. On the other side of the body, the wolf drooled and spat dark ichor, and shaking his head in distaste. Teyla grimaced in sympathy, then stiffened as something occurred to her.

"They come," she said urgently. "I felt her die, and the others in her nest will have felt it as well." She whirled to face Rodney. "Where is the entrance?"

"What?" Rodney blinked, confused. "I don't . . . entrance?" Teyla suppressed a curse. He was still drugged. It was not his fault.

Ronon kicked the queen's ruined head into the bushes. Then he looked up and frowned. "Sheppard knows."

It was true. John had run to the edge of the clearing nearest the cliff-face, and had paused, looking back at them. He yipped demandingly.

"C4. Trap them," Ronon said.

"Go. We will follow."

Ronon and the wolf sprinted off, heading for the cliff hiding the Wraith nest.

"Come, Rodney," she said, hauling him up. There were no good choices, for they must run toward danger, but she would not leave him alone; he had been without them too long already. She pulled him along with her, glad there was little distance to cover. Rodney was not capable of walking very far.

They cleared the trees, finding, to her relief, no horde of Wraith or worshippers emerging from the rock-face. Ronon was busy at an indentation in the cliff, the wolf dancing agitatedly around him. "They are not far off!" Teyla called in warning, for they were beyond stealth and well into desperation.

She could sense three, no, _four_ Wraith-minds approaching. They were rising and becoming stronger, possibly as the Wraith—and probably many worshippers—were transported by some mechanism from a den deep in the mountain's bowels, up to the surface.

"Run for it!" Ronon shouted. "Back to the trees!"

Teyla grabbed Rodney who wheeled and almost fell, still muddled and unsteady. She dragged him behind a large tree and Ronon and John flung themselves into cover, just as the cliff exploded dramatically, leaving, when the dust settled a little, a huge rockfall.

"Like to see them get past _that_ ," Ronon said in satisfaction.

Teyla concentrated. "They are on the other side. They were not killed. No, wait. One Wraith is gone. And we can hope some of their human followers were caught, as well. There are still three Wraith, however, and they . . ." she closed her eyes, focusing. "Ancestors' blood! They have another exit, in the next valley. We have only delayed them."

"Got more C4," Ronon said. "We can go there and blow that one, too. Keep 'em bottled up."

Teyla shook her head. "No. It is too risky. For them it is an arrow-straight journey through deep tunnels. We would have to skirt the mountain's flank, which is several times the distance. We would not be in time."

"Then we run," Ronon said. "Make for the Ring."

"Yes," Teyla said, "but, Ronon, Rodney cannot . . . he is not well. Drugged, I think."

"I'll carry him," Ronon said. "Got to wear off sometime."

"He is weak, and it's rough going in the forest," Teyla said doubtfully. "It will tax you, and it is several days' journey." She sighed. "But I see no alternative."

Growls suddenly erupted from a grove of trees, mixed with strange trumpeting noises. The wolf appeared and yipped at them peremptorily.

Teyla stiffened. "That sounds like–"

"Bo'an," Ronon said, already moving toward the sound, his nose raised, scenting the air. "A whole bunch of them."

"Bo'an are from Treichor," Teyla said as she coaxed Rodney toward the trees. "What are they doing here?"

"Dunno," Ronon said. "Must've brought 'em through the Ring. Traded for them, I guess."

Having brought the bo'an to their attention, Teyla saw that John kept well back, clearly aware that in wolf form, he frightened the large, usually docile animals. The bo'an were still restless, milling about and hooting anxiously.

"Can you ride them?" she asked Ronon.

" 'course." He grinned back over his shoulder, moving to unlatch the pen. "You know what they say. 'Easy as falling off a bo'an'."

"Indeed," Teyla said, unconvinced. "They are very . . . tall."

"Travel-rigged, though," Ronon said, inside the pen now, calming the animals with pats and murmurs. "Think you can manage one?"

"I will have to," Teyla said, resigned. "But what of Rodney?"

"Put him up with me. Bo'an are strong."

It took some persuasion, but Teyla eventually managed to get Rodney to scramble up on the pen-railing so that Ronon could hoist him up in front.

"These things are weird," Rodney said, screwing up his face. "Like elephants, only . . . thinner, and really smelly." He was already much clearer mentally, although still physically weak. He seemed to have little memory of the past several days, shaking his head and turning pale when Teyla asked even gentle questions.

"They are common enough transport on many worlds, Rodney, and you cannot walk well after your confinement."

His face clouded, then he frowned and looked around. "Where's the Colonel?"

"He is scouting, and will go on ahead," she said, unsure if Rodney realized John was in wolf-form. They had no time for lengthy explanations, and she feared he would not accept John as a laekos. From Elizabeth's reaction, laekos were mere legends on Earth, and Rodney often scoffed at mysteries, talking of superstition and something called voodoo. She watched him calmly, but he accepted her tale and looked away, shifting awkwardly and complaining that Ronon's blaster was poking his leg.

Teyla looped the guide-strings of her bo'an over the gate-post of the pen. "A moment," she said quietly to Ronon. "I must talk with John." Ronon nodded, and bent to adjust his holster.

She found the wolf just inside the tree-line, and knelt down. "John—it is very good to see you. Are you injured? She did not harm you?"

The wolf approached her and sat, his eyes bright. His chest was still stained with the queen's blood, but he seemed none the worse for wear. He huffed, then leaned forward and nosed Teyla's cheek affectionately.

She stroked his fur, then drew back. "You cannot change?" John moved his great head in negation.

"It is not that you stay as a laekos—as a wolf—to protect us?" she asked, knowing he would do so if he thought it necessary. John would do anything for them, she knew. He shook his head again.

Teyla frowned. "We will solve that, I am sure, but for now it may be useful. We have only a small supply of trail-rations so your hunting skills will be needed. The wolf grinned, showing his sharp teeth. "Ronon and I cannot scout while we are riding, so having you range ahead will be safer."

John yipped softly in agreement.

"We will tether the bo'an a little way away from our camps, and upwind, so you can join us when we rest," Teyla said. She bent her head forward and he lowered his, his broad, soft brow pressed reassuringly to hers as she rested her hands on his furry shoulders. He was better at the greeting as a wolf, she reflected wryly, than he had been as a man.

Teyla rose to her feet and John stretched, then moved closer to lean his warm bulk against her thigh. She pointed. "The Ring is that way, but I imagine you can scent the trail." He looked up, eyes laughing, and she grinned. "Indeed. Bo'an have a . . . distinctive smell." The wolf snorted and shook himself, miming disgust.

Smiling, she turned back to the others, raising a hand. "Fair journey, John."

=o=o=o=

In the dense forest, John was more agile than the bo'an and he covered the rough ground faster, slipping through thickets around which they had to detour. He circled ahead then looped back several times, letting Ronon or Teyla catch a glimpse, knowing they'd be reassured to see him checking in.

Toward dusk he led them to a cave he'd discovered in an outcrop. It smelled safely unoccupied, and they tethered the bo'an upwind, behind the rocks. John had smelled food in the next gully, so he slipped away and found a colony of animals that looked like beaver, except for their thin, scale-covered tails tipped by several blunt spikes. After the first one turned its back on him and dealt him a painful blow to the muzzle, he learned to go for the tail first, holding them down with one paw while he snapped their necks.

He took three of the creatures back to the cave and dropped two by the fire Ronon had made inside the entrance, withdrawing to eat the third in the bushes, still a little self-conscious about being such a complete carnivore. Not that he'd ever considered vegetarianism, but chowing down on a burger was pretty different to crunching up the bones of an animal you'd just killed. That was what the Wraith were, after all: obligate predators.

After his sating his hunger, he crept back and lay down outside the cave, on guard. He could hear Rodney inside, apparently lying flat on his back on a bedroll, complaining that his spine would never be the same.

Ronon squatted down beside him. "Hey." John thumped his tail a couple of times in greeting. "Thanks for dinner." Ronon had skinned the beaver-things and gutted them, and had rigged a makeshift spit out of branches. The roasting meat smelled okay, but John preferred his food raw, these days.

They were quiet for a time, listening to Rodney's voice rise and fall, Teyla's soft tones answering him from time to time. "I reckon the Ring'll be guarded," Ronon said, poking the fire. "Worshippers. Maybe those Wraith from the mountain, if they make better time than us." John growled softly in agreement. Even though the Wraith and their followers would be delayed by detouring to another exit to bypass the rockfall, they would still have an easier journey as there was a cleared track stinking of bo'an dung all the way from the underground stronghold to the Gate. John had avoided the track, instead leading his team through dense forest, but their enemies would take the straightest road.

"Yeah," Ronon said. "We’ll have to fight." He reached for his pack and hauled it over, opening it and pulling out something smelled of oil and metal. He showed John: a grenade. "Got a few. Lorne figured if we couldn't bring a platoon along, he'd give us the next best thing." John sniffed the grenade appreciatively. He'd have to buy Lorne a beer if he ever got back to being human again. He shook the thought off, standing and stretching.

"Oh my _god_ ," Rodney said from across the fire, where he'd pushed up on one elbow and was staring through the flames. "It's Shep!" He scrambled up and whistled to John, smacking one palm on his thigh in encouragement. "C'mon, boy! C'mere!"

"Ah, Rodney, perhaps you should not–" Teyla began, looking pained.

John didn't care. He trotted around the fire and up to Rodney, who looked a lot better, although too thin and unshaven, his hair sticking up in tufts. John licked Rodney's hands, leaning into him as Rodney petted him, exclaiming about what a good boy he was, and how clever he was to have found them. Teyla hadn't told him, then. He caught her eye and she lifted a shoulder apologetically.

"He used to hang out with me in the forest, back when I . . . when she . . ." Rodney swallowed and shook his head, then knelt and slung an arm around John's shoulders. John licked his cheek consolingly.

"I called him Shep," Rodney explained to Teyla, leaning away from John's tongue. "Ew, stop that you mutt, it tickles. It was from that country and western song, _Old Shep_. I think, um, actually I think the Colonel had a copy—that must be where I heard it. Johnny Cash recorded it."

John yipped in confirmation and sat, grinning at Rodney, his tongue lolling. Not his favorite Cash number, a bit too maudlin, but anything by the Man in Black was good.

"I can remember more of it now," Rodney said, still kneeling, hands on his thighs. He shut his eyes and lifted his voice. " _I remember the time at the old swimmin' hole, when I would've drowned beyond doubt. Shep was right there, to the rescue he came, he jumped in and helped pull me out."_ Rodney broke off singing. "The next bit's too sad," he said, "but the ending's okay. _Now Old Shep is gone where the good doggies go, And no more with Old Shep will I roam . . ."_

John couldn't resist. He lifted his head and sang along, yipping and howling.

_". . . But if dogs have a heaven, there's one thing I know, Old Shep has a wonderful home."_

Teyla applauded, beaming. On the other side of the fire, Ronon rolled on the ground, snorting with laughter. "Ancestors' teeth," he said when he could catch his breath. "Should've left a couple of grenades behind and brought a camera."

Rodney sat back on the blanket and John lay down, head in his lap. Rodney stroked him absently. "Oh, hey, where _is_ the Colonel, anyway? He's going to miss dinner if he doesn't hurry up."

Teyla and Ronon glanced at each other. "Might as well tell him," Ronon said. "He's got to know sometime."

Teyla sighed, and looked at John. John yipped agreement. Rodney was going to freak, but better here, with the team. She nodded.

"John is already here, Rodney." She smiled at him. "He is what we in Pegasus call a laekos. A shape-changer. He is the wolf."

"What wolf?" Rodney asked, puzzled. John snorted, and cast an eye up at him. Rodney looked down, then frowned. "This is a _wolf?_ " He tensed, staring down, his hand stilling on John's back. John whined and nudged Rodney's thigh. Rodney looked up at Teyla, eyes wide. "I thought it was just a big dog."

"He is a wolf, and he is John Sheppard," Teyla said, doing that thing she did in tense situations where she somehow radiated calm in soothing waves. "He is indeed your friend, Rodney. You are quite safe—John would never harm you."

Rodney sucked in a shaky breath. "But he's not . . . that's impossible." He stared down at John, who rolled over onto his front and crawled forward, his head raised, looking back at Rodney. "That's why the Cash song, why I called you Shep," Rodney muttered, brows furrowed. He bent forward and peered into John's eyes. "He's got Sheppard's eyes—I thought they were a weird color for a dog." John huffed in annoyance. "Sorry, for a, a _wolf_."

Rodney sat up straighter. "Wait, wait. He's not a _werewolf_ is he? Did he get _werewolf_ spit on me?"

"Nah," Ronon said, taking the meat off the fire and setting it aside to cool. "He's a shape-changer, a laekos. They don't pass it on by biting. Not moon-linked, either. Change whenever they want. Always been a few of them, in Pegasus, back in the old days."

"Well," Teyla said, rocking her hand. "Usually they can change at will. But John had not changed for many years—is that not so?" John thumped his tail. "Yes," Teyla continued. "I do not think he could have hidden it from us, if he was living as a wolf for much of the time. I believe it is now difficult for him to change back." She eyed Rodney and cocked her head. "You are taking this news more calmly than I expected, Rodney."

He shrugged. "Yes, well. This is _Pegasus_ , after all—it's no weirder than him turning into an _insect_. Actually, it's a lot _less_ weird than that. Anyway, it's obvious he's Sheppard, once you point it out." Rodney ticked points off on his fingers. "Lazy, fond of creature comforts, far too hairy, terrible taste in music." John grinned up at him, crawling closer to curl up by Rodney's side, tail thumping a few beats. After a moment, Rodney put a tentative hand on his back again and began stroking. "So he's guarding us, then?"

"He is indeed, and he caught our dinner," Teyla said. "I think it very likely he will stay a wolf as long as we need him in that form."

Rodney stilled, a thought seeming to strike him. "Oh, kind of like that personal shield, where I wanted to take it off but I couldn’t because my unconscious was freaking out and wanted the protection?"

"Just so," Teyla said. "In reverse. At some level, John may feel he must stay a wolf to shield us until we are safe. I am hopeful that once his protection is no longer required, he will be able to change back again." John considered this—maybe it _was_ why he was stuck. It made a kind of sense, so he decided not to worry about it any more.

"Hmm," Rodney said, considering. "Does Elizabeth know about," he gestured at John, "all this?"

"We saw John change so we told her, and Lorne, and Zelenka," Teyla said, sounding as though she regretted it. "Carson knows as well, but no one else. We did not realize . . . laekos are rare in Pegasus, but not unknown. I had thought them extinct, rather than mythical. Elizabeth did not react well."

"Thought we were still doped up," Ronon said. "Beckett tested us, though. We weren't." He got some tin plates out of one of the packs and divided up the roast meat. "Told her it was like in _New Moon_."

"Oh yes, well played—a _Twilight_ reference," Rodney said tartly. "That'd _certainly_ have convinced her." Ronon passed around the plates of roast beaver-thing and Rodney shoved a chunk in his mouth and made blissful noises. "This is pretty good," he said, still chewing. "A little gamey, but really tender." He swallowed and wiped his mouth. "Okay, so we have to get Sheppard to change back before anyone else sees him. Then we can say she was right, silly us, and it was just the drugs. We'll have to go via a waystation planet anyway to get home, so he can do it there." He peered down at John, the beaver-rib he was clutching dripping juice down his wrist. "You're going to have to restrain yourself. Only wolf-out on missions when it's just us. We’ll take you walkies."

John raised a derisive hackle at him and stole a leg of beaver-thing off his plate. He got scolded and rapped on the nose, and all in all it was pretty much like dinner in the mess-hall, except furrier.

Once Rodney had settled down and was snoring, John extricated himself and padded up to the opening of the cave, flopping down there. Ronon gave him a nod and went to his own bedroll, and John sat, quiet in himself for the first time in days, listening, and scenting the night breeze, on watch while his team slept.

=o=o=o=

The Ancestors' Ring was heavily guarded. They had unharnessed the bo'an and turned them loose some way back in the forest where no one would smell them or hear their calls, and traveled on foot over the last ridge, to the Ring.

It was impossible to get close, the edge of the forest being filled with armed villagers, some facing the clearing, and others into the forest. Teyla shut her eyes, concentrating. "They are here, all three," she murmured. She had felt the pressure of their minds building as they drew near to the Ring. _Hunger. Hatred. Revenge._

"We need a diversion," Rodney whispered. "Can we throw a grenade?"

"Not far enough. Not in trees," Ronon said softly. "Still got that C4, though."

"How fast can Sheppard run?" Rodney asked.

"Fast," Ronon said. Teyla saw John nudge his nose against Rodney's hand in agreement.

"If we set a timer, he could take the C4 and leave it far enough away to be useful, then run like hell back here before it went off." John huffed agreement.

"It is too dangerous," Teyla said, frowning. "If he were caught, or if the timer went off prematurely. Rodney—it would be in his mouth . . ." That gave them all pause, but John sat stubbornly before them and glared, then tipped his head meaningfully at the C4 in Ronon's pack.

"He's up for it," Ronon said, his mouth quirking.

"Yes, yes, never saw a suicide run he didn’t like," muttered Rodney, worried. "I've gone off the whole idea, but of course he won't let it go now."

Teyla still did not like the plan, for John could not carry the explosive except in his mouth, but Rodney rigged it carefully, wrapping the rectangular package in cloth and wiring the detonator and timer at one end so that John could hold the other end and not disturb the mechanism.

Finally, John readied himself, the explosive in his mouth, and Rodney started the timer. "Go!" he said, and John leaped away, vanishing into the trees in seconds.

They crept as close to the Ring clearing as they dared, and waited. It seemed a long wait, and Teyla had begun to fear the detonator had dislodged, or that John had been caught and disarmed, or worse. Then a cracking boom sounded some distance away, and there were screams, and shouts, and pounding feet.

"Where the fuck is he?" Rodney muttered. "Oh no, don't tell me he–"

"Gotta move," Ronon said, standing, a grenade in each hand. He pitched them at the tree-line and covered his ears. Noise, screaming and chaos, and they were running, firing, dodging the guards, taking them down, breaking through into the clearing, Rodney pelting for the DHD while she and Ronon covered him, picking off the worshippers.

Then a warrior Wraith broke free of the forest, snarling, and a stunner blast just missed Rodney, hunched over the DHD as he was. Teyla went to fire her P-90 but Ronon knocked the barrel aside, yelling "Sheppard!" and she saw that John had the Wraith down, growling and slashing at its throat. A drone emerged from the trees and she riddled it with bullets, focusing on the masked head until it fell and did not rise. Ronon had thrown two more grenades into the trees and mown down a swathe of worshippers armed with spears and stunners, but one crazed-looking man had reached Rodney at the DHD and Rodney had turned, unable to finish dialing, grabbing for his non-existent beretta.

They had re-armed him, a P-90 dangling from the tac-vest she had brought, but they had not brought all his gear, not a beretta and holster, and his preference for the handgun now betrayed him. He had never been as confident with a P-90, not since that fiasco in the great storm when he fumbled the clip. The worshipper raised his stunner and Teyla saw disaster unfolding, but she was too far away, battling her own group of villagers. Ronon was dodging blasts from the last Wraith warrior, going for a kill shot, and Teyla heard the stunner whine and saw Rodney fall. She fired and fired, trying desperately to reach him, and then the wolf, having killed his Wraith, burst through the throng of enemy to crouch over Rodney, snarling defiance.

There were too many, Teyla thought desperately. Too many, and the diversion had not drawn enough of them away. She and Ronon fell back, herded against the DHD with John and Rodney as the worshippers surrounded them, no thought of preserving them for their masters to feed on now all three Wraith were dead, a forest of spears raised in vengeance.

The familiar shimmer disoriented her for a second, then all was white light, dissolution, and they were on the Daedalus's beaming platform, she and Ronon stumbling to their knees, Rodney unconscious, and John crouched over him, snarling fiercely.

It was not, given all that, very surprising that an airman stunned John with a zat, blue fire arcing over his fur as he yelped, then crumpled, collapsing heavily onto Rodney. Had he not fallen there, Teyla reflected after it was all over, he might have been zatted more than once, so really, it was just as well, even if Rodney later complained that half his bruises were from being "crushed by the Hound of the Baskervilles".

=o=o=o=

John resumed human form in the infirmary, the familiar surroundings and voices of his team penetrating the zat haze before he was fully conscious. _Safe. Recovering._

He was on his side, wrists and ankles fastened to the bed-frame by leather restraints. Great. Thank Christ someone had had the forethought to cover him with a sheet—his money was on Teyla for that—because he was naked, of course, shivering with reaction to the stun and to the change.

"John, all is well," Teyla said, and he figured she'd been saying it for a while, hoping he'd feel safe enough to change. He thought it was the city, as well. Something about the ancient tech kept the wolf buried, pushed it down. He guessed the Ancients, headed for ascension, weren't into running with their inner wolves.

Beckett bustled up, Elizabeth following. Ronon and Teyla were already unbuckling the restraints, not waiting for permission.

"Jeez, Carson," John said, wincing away from the penlight. "I wasn't hit on the head."

"You lie still, laddie," Carson said sternly. "And I'll be needing another blood sample. Your blood sugar was low on the last test, but even the zoologists couldn't say what was normal, for a wolf."

"Oh, believe me, they'll be regretting that," Rodney said grimly, peering over Carson's shoulder. "Useless bunch of freeloaders. I'm sending them all back on the Daedalus and getting some real scientists out here with practical expertise in lupine physiology and anatomy. A Canadian naturalist, I imagine, and a veterinary surgeon with plenty of large-canine experience."

"We'll discuss it later, Rodney," Elizabeth said quellingly. John figured the zoologists were probably safe, even if they needed to lie low for a while.

Carson took his blood sample and carried it off to the lab, and Marie put a warmed blanket over John. He smiled at her gratefully, relaxing a little. His head was pounding and his muscles ached – the usual zat or stunner after-effects. Teyla held a straw to his lips and he drank.

"If you're feeling a little better, I wanted to talk to you about–" Elizabeth began, and oh yeah, here it came. 

"For god's sake, Elizabeth, he's still half-zatted and groggy," Rodney broke in angrily. "We already told you what caused it. I saw the thing myself in the village, an ancient device those damn worshippers must have kept to try to identify anyone with the gene. I activated it first, which was why they grabbed me, but you know the Colonel can never keep his sticky fingers off the technology. It didn't change _me_ because mine's the artificial gene, but it transformed the Colonel for a couple of weeks, until the effect wore off just now." Elizabeth went to speak, but Rodney was in exposition-mode, and he raised a commanding hand. "I know what you're going to say—where is it in the database, right? Well, I haven't found it yet, no, but then I've only been conscious about,"—he looked at his watch,—"two hours, so give me a break. I'll keep looking, but a) it's stuck on a planet full of Wraith worshippers who're pissed that we killed their life-sucking overlords, and b) there's very little practical application. I want those lupine specialists out here because we may need them, now we know we might run across this problem again—god knows why the Ancients would ever need to turn people into animals, but hey, these are the morons that created the Wraith and I've long since given up trying to figure out their ludicrous nonsense. So, impractical. I mean, it's not as though we _want_ anyone turning into a wolf, do we?"

Elizabeth looked as battered as John felt. Rodney in full rant was a sight to behold, and John would have enjoyed himself thoroughly if he hadn’t been feeling like bo'an shit. At least he had the cover story now—Rodney had made sure of that. Teyla and Ronon were nodding seriously, and Rodney's eyes gleamed as he turned to John, hands on his hips. "Come on now, Colonel, admit it. You touched the damn thing, didn't you?"

"You know me, Rodney," John said easily. "Can't keep my hands off the glowy stuff."

"The device looked innocuous, Elizabeth, like a piece of jewelry," Teyla put in, lying through her delicate teeth. She had the best poker face he'd ever seen. "We did not realise it was an artefact of the Ancestors until too late, and by then the drugged fruit was affecting us." She looked embarrassed. "I apologise for telling you that ridiculous tale about John being a laekos. They are only legends, even here in Pegasus, I assure you. We were in shock, and did not have all the facts."

Elizabeth pursed her lips, sensing something hinky but unable to pin it down. She sighed. "Well, at least you're all safe now. Get your AARs to me tomorrow." She looked around at them. "I think we should leave Colonel Sheppard to get some rest."

Rodney grabbed her arm and drew her away, complaining that the Daedalus hadn't brought a mass spectrometer he'd ordered, and Teyla patted John's foot. "We will be back," she said, "with dinner."

"Yeah, 'Shep'. Want me to catch you some of Carson's mice?" Ronon said, smirking. "Or zoology might have a few beaver-things."

John gave him the finger and rolled over. It was okay. They had his back.

 

=o=o=o=

 

– the end –

**Author's Note:**

> Johnny Cash singing "Old Shep" (to a roomful of kids, which has to count as child abuse, surely?) Warning: earworm. 
> 
> [Old Shep lyrics](http://lyricsplayground.com/alpha/songs/o/oldshep.shtml) (Warning: tearjerker about the death of a pet dog)
> 
> The title is a USAF motto.


End file.
